Frost
by Funkmountain
Summary: When Gandalf chooses a woman, barely an adult, who can hardly control the power raging in her to be a member of Thorin's Company, the dwarves are intrigued, to say the least. Flinn, meanwhile, fights desperately to maintain control over her magic, but with a dwarf like Kili prodding her, trying to break her defenses for Mahal knows what reasons, it's relatively difficult. KilixOC
1. Frosty Mug and a Broken Window

**A/N: Gasp! I got off my lazy arse (that's really not true. I'm still sitting on my lazy arse. I'm just sort of doing something productive now) and started a fanficition. My first one to boot! Also, my first naughty story _ever_, so be gentle on the newbie, please? And by be gentle, I mean send me a message if you detect errors or just things that don't make sense. I'm one of those people who need help and advice with writing, but I can't ask my mom for help 'cuz like I said, naughty. I also don't have a beta, not sure how you get one but if you wanna be mine, all you gotta do is send a message. But now I'll stop rambling, because you came here for semi-quality writing, not the word vomit of a slightly delusional majorly obsessed teen...**

**Just kidding, not done, gotta throw in the necessary disclaimer. None of the dwarves belong to me (oh I wish they did though) Gandalf doesn't belong to me, the elves don't belong to me... everyone that's not an OC is not mine. **

**Okay. Finally to the story. ENJOY**

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Rain drenched Bree as the hooded figure jogged to the gate, eager to get some protection from the deluge. A gloved and impatient fist pounded on the gate. It woke the keeper; a man as ancient as magic, but much more mundane.

"Terrible weather we've been having, lately." He remarked to the stranger, squinting at the keys in the darkness. The marks discerning which key belonged to which lock had all but faded, and with his eyes bleary from sleep as they were, it took quite a while for him to find the right one.

"When is the weather in Bree not like this, though?" A voice, unmistakably female, but rough and earthy grumbled. She silently nodded her thanks to the man before he shuffled back to his dry hovel and she wove her way deeper into Bree.

"I hate the rain. Then again, I hate everything about Bree. Why did I even come here again?" Flinn sighed to herself, pulling her drenched hood over her face in a vain attempt to keep out the rain drops. Of course she knew why she was here; she didn't have the coin to be anywhere else. But that didn't mean she couldn't engage in a bit of harmless griping. It improved her mood, which was souring quickly. Stupid Bree and it's stupid shoddy weather and it's stupid people and it's stupid everything. She peevishly sent a rock flying through the air. The noise of shattering glass soon followed.

"Sod." She trudged through the puddles faster, and when she heard the creaking of door hinges from the home suddenly down one window, she ran, laughing.

The Prancing Pony smelled like sweat, men, and watered down ale. Pretty much the way it did last time Flinn was unfortunate enough to find her way here; except last time, the stench of pure ale had assaulted her with fury. Perhaps Butterburr had fallen on hard times since and added water to the unfathomable brew to make it last longer. Or, maybe it was simply busier last time and the pure quantity of alcohol had overpowered the slightly watery smell. It didn't matter either way; she didn't have much coin filling her purse, but it was enough to get staggeringly drunk, and that's exactly what she was going to do.

She pushed open the tavern doors with gusto. Skillfully, she weaved her way in between stumbling men who drank a little too much and barmaids trying to balance trays brimming with pint mugs. She deftly lifted a coin pouch or five from various men who she was sure would not notice.

"Butterburr!" She exclaimed with a false smile, raising her voice so she was heard over the shouted tavern songs.

The man turned to her, a mug and dishcloth in his plump fingers. A polite, if not a little forced, smile crossed his face; she could tell he didn't like her personally, but every time she stayed at his inn she paid her debts and didn't incite barfights, which could not be said about some of the other people he allowed in his tavern. The prospect of coin and her overall conduct were pleasing enough that he was at least willing to be friendly, despite the fact that she terrified him a bit.

"Same price as last time for a room?" She asked, pulling a stolen pouch from the belt at her waist and peeking inside to see if there was adequate coin. There wasn't, of course, as drunkards usually have spent all their coins, but she still had enough in her own bag to pay any debts.

"It is, at that, but you're not the one who'll have to pay for it." He smirked as he eyed the confused tilt of her mouth and twirled the rag around the mug once more before setting it down. He reached for a cheap-looking pitcher and started to fill the now-clean vessel with a honey-hued brew.

"Tall man, pointy hat, paid for a room, just for you. Also paid for you to have an ale." He gave the mug a gentle shove so it slid the short distance to her hands.

Gandalf _would_ know she was coming.

She smiled into her ale, pushing her way through the crowd until she came to a rickety table in a corner, stained and filled with nicks here and there, ranging in size from huge to inconsequential.

She pulled a chair back with one hand and fell into it, taking care not to spill any of the foaming ale, and waited.

It was a while before the wizard made his way to the tavern, gaze roaming over all the dark corners she might have perched in. Finally, his eyes picked up the glint of silver thread in the candlelight and he made his way to her table. Conveniently, it had an untouched ale sitting by an unoccupied chair. So she had responded to his little gesture of kindness with one of her own.

The tavern had cleared out in the time it had taken the wizard to make his way back. The noise level had died down to a dull murmur, everyone gone home except for a few serving girls and a handful of drinkers, some passed out on the table.

"Gandalf!" Flinn had cried, jumping up excitedly from her seat to pull him into a crushing hug. He wasn't surprised; this was the customary greeting of the few close friends she kept close. He would've returned her forceful embrace, if his arms hadn't been effectively pinned to his sides.

"Hello, my dear girl!" He had managed to wheeze, despite the woman clinging to him and drenching his robes with her wet cloak.

"Oh, I'm hugging too tightly again, aren't I? I'm sorry, I just, I'm so glad to see you!" She sat again, causing the chair to whine a bit in protest. "I got you an ale. Even kept it cold, though it was a bit trying."

Gandalf smiled as he also sat. It was good to see that the girl wasn't as reserved anymore, choosing to let her words flow instead of sullenly keeping her mouth shut for days on end. She had her reasons to be broody, and she used to be quite so; but she had changed, little by little, letting herself be open in the company of those she considered dear.

He took a gulp from the mug. It was indeed cold, frigid even. Which brought him to possibly unpleasant topic of their conversation.

"How _are_ you doing, in regards to control?" He asked tediously. It was a question that needed to be answered, and since he was the closest thing to her guardian, he needed to ask it. It was a sensitive thing for her, though, and he broached it with more caution than necessary.

The smile faded from her face a bit, seriousness replacing the joyfulness.

"It's... difficult." She sighed, running a hand through the wet hair she had freed from its tie. "I'm getting better at it- I can cast spells without them getting out of hand and magic doesn't just, you know, burst out of my hands, but it takes a constant effort. It's draining, but hey" she shrugged, a smirk returning to her face "if I can do things like keep ale cool and heal my own hangovers, it's all worth it!"

Gandalf laughed, taking another swallow. If she could control her magic, even use it, well...

He may have found the fifteenth member of the company.


	2. A Proposition

**A/N: Hello all welcome back to the second chapter. Thanks to all who read, reviewed, favorited, and followed. Much love to you. I'm afraid there may be a few of grammatical/spelling errors, as when I wrote this I had a high fever and just wanted to get it done and up and then crash. Turned out I fell asleep before I finished anyway, but yeah, I'm just too much sick to even read it over again. Apologies and hopefully I'll get a more lengthy chapter up sometime in the next week**

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"I've a proposition for you."

Flinn laughed, leaning back and making the chair utter another groan of protest. Gandalf had many of these for her, over the time they'd known each other. They got progressively more bizarre and life-threatening as the years rolled on. Flinn shuddered a bit, wondering how this could be any worse than last time, when she'd been tasked with collecting all manner of unnatural and outlandish things (some of which being troll snot, an exploding pinkish powder sold exclusively at an extremely batty old hag's shop in Gondor, and some mushrooms from Farmer Maggot's fields, though she suspected he didn't even need the fungi and only made her get them to fool around with the cantankerous farmer) for his fireworks. She hadn't come up with any situations more soul-numbing and painfully tedious than acquiring the many items on his magical grocery list, but knowing the Wizard? There had to be at least one or two.

"Are you sure I'm drunk enough for this?" She loudly slammed a newly polished-off mug (it had to be at least her fourth) down on the table for emphasis. The serving girl squeaked before scrambling to get the pair new ales.

Flinn watched the serving girl scrambling around behind the counter.

"If that's some stew I smell back there, bring that out, too." She called to the girl. She'd told Flinn her name, what was it? Amalla?

There _was_ stew, and it looked divine, plumes of steam raising from the bowl and carrying a meaty aroma throughout the tavern. Flinn felt her mouth get a bit wetter and couldn't help but think how long it had been since she'd had some good, wholesome supper.

"What's in it?" Flinn grunted, not really caring, but wanting to make sure the chunks floating around in the creamy broth weren't 'mystery meat'. She'd spent enough nights vomiting on the side of the road to know that unidentified food, though it may look and smell lovely, was not something to be trusted.

"Lamb roast, potatoes, mushrooms, some leeks. There's some spices in there, as well, that I don't know the name of."

Flinn nodded her thanks to the girl, and satisfied with its now-known contents, shoveled the meal into her mouth like a madwoman.

Gandalf chuckled at her, though whether he found her enthusiasm for the stew or her subtle suggestion that she may need to get a bit more tipsy before he told her of this proposition amusing, Flinn knew not which. Perhaps both?

He pulled out his pipe, magically lighting it with his finger. Before long, some Old Toby smoldered in the bowl, and wispy smoke denizens of all kinds flickered and danced in the air around theirr table. The show was enough to make Flinn momentarily forget her food and watch with wide-eyed wonder in a very childish way, 'oohs' and 'ahhs' occasionally escaping her mouth.

They sat in silence like that for a while, the serving girl stopping in her work to catch a peek at the wonders that flew from Gandalf's pipe.

"So, about this proposition?" Flinn eventually asked, breaking the smoky spell.

"Ah yes, that." Gandalf extinguished his pipe, emptying it's ashen contents into a bin by the table and reaching for his tankard, which had been refilled with wine at his request. "I'm looking for someone to share in an adventure, and I rather think that someone is you. Or at least, it _should _be you."

"Oh, _lovely_. Another adventure. What's the all-but-nonexistent herb that needs to be collected from some obscure corner of the world for an isane experiment this time?" she sighed. The gold Gandalf gave her for buying his trinkets was substantial and more than satisfactory, but as it was, she had her fair share of trouble and no amount of Gandalf's payment could convince her to get into more of it. Trouble was inevitable where Gandalf's adventures were concerned.

Gandalf huffed. "You've far exaggerated the challenges you faced while gathering those supplies. You barely traveled past the Shire! And I would think the payment I gave would be more than enough recompense."

"I barely traveled past the Shire!? I journeyed all the way to Gondor!" She hissed, fist pounding on the table and causing a wave of ale to slosh over the tankard's side and a small pool of ale to form on the table.

Gandalf rolled his eyes, waiting for her to take a swallow and calm before shifting the focus from her previous adventure to the one he hoped she would be going on.

"In any case, I'm in too much of my own mess to go traipsing about the map as your errand-girl." Flinn set down her freshly finished mug and called for another. Much like trouble, sobriety was a thing she was content to be without.

"You're far more important than just an errand-girl, and this has very little to do with me. It centers around your folk; around the dwarves."

This time it was Flinn's turn to roll her eyes. "I've barely got any dwarven blood in me, Gandalf. I also doubt very highly that any adventure worth going on wouldn't have you involved in it somehow." She smirked. "Much to Saruman's chagrin. Ye gods, that man is as fussy, worrisome, and nosy as a mother. A magical, bearded mother."

A scowl crossed Gandalf's face. "You're half-dwarf. I wouldn't say that makes you any less of a dwarf. You act enough like one." 'Much less drink like one.' He thought, but chose not to say. The girl hated to adress her alcoholism and it wasn't that much of a problem anyway, so he left her alone about it. "You're determined to find fault with this quest before you even know what it is."

Flinn stared into her drink, not answering. In truth, there was nothing more she wanted to do than leave the few things she had behind and go on a real, honest-to-goodness adventure.

_Then why was she holding back in this way__?_

_"Because you're too dangerous to do this" _A voice, of reason or caution it didn't matter, it was one she could not ignore whispered from inside her head.

"Will there be more than me on this journey?" She asked, not looking up from the depths of her cup.

"Yes."

"How many?" Flinn ventured, dreading the answer. She preferred the company of herself to others, with a few exceptions, one being Gandalf.

"There will be sixteen, including myself and you." _Should you accept_ being left unsaid by Gndalf.

Flinn sighed, draining the tankard. There was no way she would accept this adventure, no matter how much she yearned for it. Being with fifteen others put fifteen more people in danger, if her magic got the better of her.

But, like magic, a drunken mouth is hard to control, and a few tankards later when the words "How soon can we start?" came tumbling out too fast to stop, she was effectively bound by her word.

Flinn was going on an adventure.


	3. A Place in Hobbiton

**A/N: Aw yeah,**** I just got Middle-Earth flip flops! They're probably one of the best things I own. And yeah, I also just realized Butterburr probably would not have run the inn, seeing how he's a man and this is sixty years earlier than LOTR. Whoops! I guess this is Butterburr's father. Yeah, I'll go with that. When in doubt, pull out the daddy trick.**

**Alas, I know this is late, but there was a screw-up with my medication and getting that sorted out was my first priority (since, you know, living is just a _little _bit more important than fanfic), and it took a while.**** But**** look, to compensate, I wrote a long chapter for once! I'm not entirely happy (especially the ending, ugh, it's an awkward place but I didn't know where else to do it) with it but I just really wanted to get it up. Hopefully, now that we're farther into the story there'll be more of these and less short ones. Special thanks to all who reviewed, favorited, and/or followed, you all are awesome. Disclaimer stated in Chapter 1.**

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"Shit." Flinn rasped with her usual eloquence before rolling over and vomiting.

Judging from the dwarf in her head pounding away at her brain with enthusiasm and the way her stomach threatened to empty itself when she tried to get out of bed, she had thrown back several tankards too many last night. Her stomach violently forced itself up her throat again when she did manage to stagger out from underneath the blankets. At least she managed to get this time's mess in the chamber pot across the room.

She ran a hand over her face, sighing, before pressing both hands against her temples. The warmth and thrum of magic engulfed her head before she braced herself and pushed the gossamer strands of light in. The magic resisted, only going beyond her skin because she forced it. After what seemed an age, the energy seeped into her brain, dissipating the ache and leaving a trail of tingly painlessness in its wake. It wound down her throat, taking the taste of vomit with it, before settling in her stomach and banishing the alcohol induced nauseousness entirely.

Wiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, she sighed. Getting drunk was losing its appeal the more she did it, and that was rather disappointing. Perhaps it signified she was becoming, gods forbid, more responsible. How horrible a fate that would be.

"At the least, I don't _loo_k like I'm a responsible, respectable person." She reassured herself, leaning closer to a cracked looking-glass in the corner. "Actually, I look like shit." Frowning, she poked at the dark purple circling underneath her eyes. There was dirt and the occasional spot of dried blood encrusting her face, too, as well as clumping in her hair. A bit of a nasty business, adventuring; she was always getting dirty, and never getting a bath. Whatever beauty she had was lost behind the dirt, scars, and hood; and she was fine with that. Prettiness was a hard-to-maintain and useless thing that she didn't have the time for.

Still, that didn't mean she couldn't be clean. And conveniently enough, there was a tub in the corner of her room, so she wouldn't need to visit one of those shady bathhouses. Bree had an abundance of them, but still everyone seemed to be filthy here. You couldn't fault people for not going there, though; sometimes those who went in, didn't come out.

Lighting a candle, Flinn cracked open the door, wincing slightly at the pained moan the hinges, who had obviously not been oiled for at least an age, emitted a loud moan. A telltale frightened squeak sounded from the hall, and Amalla immediately withdrew from the warm glow of the candle. Flinn felt a bit sorry for this young serving girl; she could tell that this woman was the paranoid type. Flinn had gone through a stage of constant fear, and it was terrible, but some never outgrew this and Flinn could not imagine the agony of an entire life lived cowering in terror.

As the light bathed the hall, Flinn smiled at the girl and Amalla visibly relaxed, seeing it was only a person and not at all the monster her imagination had conjured.

"Can I get you anything?" Amalla asked, standing and picking up a bucket of sudsy water. "I'm afraid I can't get any drinks; Butterburr locks up the tap in the back room before he leaves. He's not come in yet, and I don't have the key."

Flinn frowned. She was hoping for a glass of ale, but now that wasn't going to happen. Oh well. "All I need is for the bath to be filled. Hot water would be nice, if it doesn't take too long to heat." Amalla smiled.

"That, I can do." The girl turned, her feet making quiet _thud thuds _as she descended the stairs, leaving Flinn alone in the hall.

Soon, steam rose from the water in the tub. Flinn poked a hesitant finger in the water. It was near scalding, just the way she preferred it. She shed her armor quickly before sinking into the water. Blissfully, she sighed as the water covered her in a liquid blanket of warmth. She sat like that for a while, just basking in the glory of such a simple but wonderful thing.

She eventually reached for the cloth Amalla had deposited by the tub and got to work. Carefully, of course; the ugly scars marking her skin like red-black rivers were many in number, and reopening one wouldn't be the best thing to do. She used to heal the wounds gained on her adventures, but doing so was draining, so now she only ever unleashed her magic when she was too sick, wounded, or hungover to move much faster than a snail.

Eventually skin, red and irritated from being assaulted with the scratchy washcloth peeked out from the dirt. "Triumph!" she whispered to herself. "I do have actual skin under all that crap, after all."

She wrapped herself in a towel Amalla had left for her and went around the room, collecting the things that belonged to her and a few things that didn't. She couldn't help it, really; she was as bad a kleptomaniac as they came. She was like a magpie, thieving more because 'Oooh, that's shiny' and from habit than an outstanding need to possess things. Usually she sold the odds and ends she picked up, or, if the merchants wouldn't take the trinkets, gave them to children. These little creatures were curious things to her, taking things from the strange hooded woman despite their parents' distressed 'no!'s. Truly, these tiny beings were interesting. You're supposed to fear much at that age; monsters and beasts and such things as that. Yet they were too young to learn true fear, and thus the traveler, so suspicious to their elders, was a thing of wonder. A thing of excitement, to be followed and to hear stories full of magic and heroes from. Unfortunately, her story was the only one she knew, and children want to hear happy tales, so they were left without their storyteller.

Finally, after searching the room for quite a while she came upon a brown burlap bag, with contents that made a satisfying _clink_ when rattled, and a note. Already knowing what was inside the bag, she opted to read the note first. The distinctive thick lines and elegant curls of the letters told that the letter's writer was none other than the Wizard.

Unfurling the parchment fully, she found it wasn't just a note, but a map as well; a path was outlined in dark blue ink. It stopped its winding way in the Shire; where exactly, she could not tell, but it seemed to be in Hobbiton. She scanned the words at the top of the page, hoping to find clarification on where exactly she should go, but found only one simple instruction: look for the glowing blue rune, at the bottom of the door. Right, that should be easy enough. Find one mark that's likely not so obvious, in an entire multitude of doors. If the coin sack wasn't so heavy, Flinn might've been quite upset with Gandalf, and his unclear directions.

She turned the note over and discovered some print here as well; the words told her to go to a small smithy, just inside the gates of Bree, and tell the person who owned it that she was there on Gandalf's behalf.

"I knew it, I knew I never should've agreed to this journey! He has me running errands again!" Flinn groaned, shoving the map in her pack and tying the binds.

She dropped her towel for the sake of putting on her leathers, a bit of the stench coming back just from her clothing. She let her hair hang loose around her shoulders, the cold and dripping water chilling the back of her neck and making some wet spots on her hood.

Pulling back the tattered cloth covering the only window in her room, Flinn saw that thick, foggy darkness still covered Bree. If she started on her way soon, she could probably reach Hobbiton by supper and catch a good meal.

She slung her pack over her shoulder and pounded down the stairs, smirking when she heard annoyed grumbling of awakened people from upstairs. Tossing a few coins to Amalla (which, unsurprisingly, the girl managed not to catch) to cover the expense of the bath, she threw the tavern doors open and was on her way.

The smithy was indeed small, for no one could tell her where it was, which she thought rather strange. Someone should've at least known around where it was. But no one did, and she was left to find it on her own.

Finally, just inside the gates, she came across a building made of stone. The sound of metal pounding metal sounded dully from either inside or in the small, gated area in the back. She hoped this was the right place, she'd been searching for well over an hour and supper at Hobbiton seemed increasingly improbable; at this rate, it would be pure luck if she made it to the Hobbit's realm by dark.

The pounding in the back stopped when she rang the bell, and the door was opened shortly after. The inside was cozier than she expected, what with it being a shop and all. An enormous fireplace dominated one wall, the light from the roaring blaze cast a warm orange glow over beaten steel. A braided rug that badly needed to be acquainted with a washboard sat alone on the floor. Swords, engraved with runes, lined several tables, their polished steel glinting madly in the firelight. Really, he shouldn't have placed them quite so close to the fire; the light brought out the imperfections of the blade that would otherwise have been hidden. There was something so terribly enchanting about the way the steel played with the light, though...

The proprietor cleared his throat, breaking Flinn's trance like fascination with the glow. Remembering her purpose, she turned to face him. He had not many years under his belt, perhaps even less than her. A rat's nest of black hair covered his head. Rivulets of sweat poured down his face, soaking hair and dirty clothes alike. He was a twig, too; his spindly arms looked like they could barely hold a hammer without collapsing. But he could, and held it proudly, grim determination etched in his face and a driving will within him that you felt, just by standing near him. A spindly, unattractive twig, perhaps; but at least he was skilled enough to make decent weapons, which many of his more successful elders couldn't do.

"I'm here on behalf of Gandalf." She informed the smith, voice taking on a businesslike quality as she tried to crush the resentment welling up at having been sent on more Mahal-fucking-damned tedious errands.

"Ah, so you're here for the package, then? Wait here, I've got it stashed somewhere in the back." The smith hurried to a door, leaving a trail of dark footprints stained from muck-ruined boots. They seemed to be much too big for him; he tripped over himself constantly, and when he did, the toe area bent over itself comically. After much violent cursing she hadn't thought the innocent looking boy capable of and what sounded like an extremely tall stack of something metallic tipping over, he emerged, a large, brown package in his dirty hands.

"That's all?" she asked the smith, taking the heavy bundle suspiciously. There was no warning that came with the delivery, no 'it's fragile, be careful' or 'and whatever you do, don't drop this's. "Will this explode? Or, you know, do anything... unnatural?" she wondered warily, handling the bundle gingerly as if it would bite. The smith only disappeared without a word out the back door, leaving Flinn alone in the parlor. The pounding came again, and with it, a cold dread. It couldn't be _so_ bad, if the smith hadn't said anything, her common sense insisted, trying to quell the rising wave of suspicion and wariness. Knowing Gandalf, though? It _had_ to be some weird ass magical thing, and weird ass magical things usually didn't bode well.

They'd been following her for two miles, now. At first, Flinn thought she was imagining things; the glint of armor in sunlight wasn't really there, the rustling in the underbrush was just a figment of her imagination, the foul smell of fur and cloth worn too often, washed too little was just a scent carried on the breeze that would soon be gone. But there is only so much one's imagination does, and hers couldn't conjure up imaginary bandits stupid enough to talk, not whisper, mind you, _talk_ while they were pursuing someone. She was almost ashamed for the fools, but more than that, she was genuinely amused. Naturally, she wasn't afraid; she'd fought worse things in the Wilds than bandits, and even if it did sound like there were a lot, a few simple-minded oafs with the grace of mountain trolls posed no threat to a seasoned traveler, such as herself.

Flinn surveyed the road before her, eyes roving over the lush fields, looking for a place where the ground was flatter. From here on out, the path to the Shire was lined with dense trees, and a thin road wasn't the best battleground. In a fight with many against one, space was a distinct advantage. Flinn doubted if she even needed it; certainly, a fight in a closed space would be more challenging, and much more fun. But it would take time, too, and if she wanted to get to the Shire by nightfall, she'd have to save every second she could. So she was left to fight more quickly, though more disappointingly.

She spotted a stony clearing, maybe fifty paces off the road. It was ideal; the ground was rocky enough to offset an inexperienced fighter, but not so rough that it would be a problem for a seasoned adventurer. The waist-high grass was lower there, as well, only rising to her ankles. Yes, that clearing was as good a spot as any to spill some bandit blood.

She stood on a weathered grey rock, bow drawn and arrow quivering excitedly as she waited for them to emerge from the trees. Eyes trained on the patch of trees, she barely breathed, barely blinked, not wanting to miss them.

Her vigilance was rewarded when a feminine shock of red curls emerged from the cover of the trees, followed shortly by the woman they belonged to. Behind her, five clumsy fools broke from the trees, clad in armor she could smell, even from fifty paces off. These scum smelt of desperation, moldy food, and sweat; soon, their corpses, picked clean by scavengers, would only reek of decay.

The arrow whistled over the grass, lodging its razor sharp point in the scantily-armored woman's forehead, making her face, red with dripping blood, match the red of her hair. Dead in an instant, she fell, even as the corner of Flinn's mouth rose. "Nice shot." she complimented herself, slinging the bow back it its place as the bandits, shouting in dismay and anger, charged towards the rock. This fight would not be a hard one to win.

Whipping out the throwing dagger nestled snugly in her boot, she drew her arm back, aiming for the one closest to her stony pedestal. The black-hilted knife flew, and, like the arrow, caused an explosion of crimson as it found its mark. Bandit number two was down, uttering one final scream before succumbing to the depths of death. Another fell in the same way before the two left, one blinded by rage at the death of his friends, launched himself at her. She wasn't expecting this sudden move and reacted too late, crashing to the ground with his bestial paw encircling her ankle. Unsheathing her long knife before he rose, she plunged it into the skin of his hand, once, twice, three times before he let go. Focused on him, she didn't notice the other's axe descending.

She felt the whir of air and jerked her arm away from the blade, but too late. Dark crimson spurted from a deep slash in her arm, soaking into the cloth around her arm. She sucked in a deep breath, forcing the blurriness out of the corners of her eyes. She would _not_ let the pain overcome her.

Grunting, she made a mental note not to forget the other this time. She twisted the knife in her hand, eyes shifting between the pair. They circled; her rotating, watching, waiting for an opening. This time around, she wouldn't let her enthusiasm and bloodlust make her careless. She would wait until one cracked, and pounce on him when he did.

The opening she'd been waiting for presented itself when one of the oafs stumbled on a rock. His clumsiness lasted only a second before he righted himself, but it was enough. She jumped on him, slashing maniacally at his vulnerable neck. It didn't take long before his frightened shrieks morphed to silence and the both of them were covered in dripping red. The other bandit ran, a wet stain growing on his pants, and she didn't pursue. She wandered back to the road, going on her way infinitely more satisfied; and dirty.

The color of wildflowers and waist-high green grass soon gave way to bright doors and gay clothes as she entered the Shire. Round Hobbits abounded, all heading in the same direction; Hobbiton market, and soon she was swept away in the sea of people.

Hobbiton market was bustling with activity, not unlike a beehive. Shrieking children darted between the legs of their parents in silly games, farmers pushed about wheelbarrows overflowing with their prize crops and pulled the ropes of resistant farm animals, most of which reeked of dirt and dung. Hobbits poured in and out of the Green Dragon, haggled at merchant tables, pored over every bit of fruit and vegetables, determined to buy only the very best. Generally, everyone was smiling and laughing and being in a good mood as most Hobbits normally are. It was like a gust of fresh air after the scowling sourness of everybody in Bree.

Not surprisingly, most of the Hobbits' wares were edible. Cured hams, seed cakes, scarlet tomatoes, peppers, potatoes, still encrusted in dirt,spiced wine, wax-encased cheeses of every kind and color, crumbly, sugar dusted pastries, and every scaly fish known to man (or, in this case, Hobbit) abounded. Many other goods were there besides foodstuffs, however.

Flinn leisurely browsed through their wares, running her fingers over floral-patterned cotton fabrics and inhaling the fresh scent of garden plants.

She decided soap would be a necessity on this journey. Carefully sniffing each bar and jar as to not choose something too flowery, she finally decided on a mint green block of soap and a large, glass vial of thick peachy liquid. She purchased two of each and dropped them in her rapidly-filling wicker market basket.

She strolled around the colorful stalls one last time, resisting all wares except for a large sack of various kinds of pipe weed and an enormous bag of brightly-colored hard candy. After the latter purchase, it was very difficult to avoid the Hobbit children who came running after her, begging for sweets with wide eyes and hopeful voices. Flinn chuckled at their enthusiasm. Not a one of them was denied their sweet prize. The bag was nearly half-gone before their attention was directed elsewhere and the sea of children flowed in a different direction, sparing the rest of Flinn's candy.

No Hobbit she had asked knew of any glowing rune on anyone's door; no Hobbit except Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, that is. Lobelia was not at all like most Hobbits, nasty and scheming, this woman. She knew all the gossip, though, especially what little there was about her cousin, Bilbo Baggins. Apparently, although his door was painted just last week (with a disgusting color, according to Lobelia, though Flinn doubted it was really so bad) there was this odd mark on it ever since a cloaked man (probably Gandalf) had visited him.

And so she found herself on the winding path to Bag End, Bilbo's home. And, sure enough, just as Lobelia had said, Gandalf's rune glowed blue like a beacon upon the door.

She had found the place.


	4. Of Washbasins and Pantries

**A/N: Another short (and super late) chapter, I am sorry that I am a failure of a writer sometimes. Well, most of the time, to be honest. It's short but my Mom was recently hospitalized and most of my time is spent at the hospital, it'll be a while before I can crank out a good long chapter and I'm so late I just needed to post something. I'll post something long again next, I promise! Thanks to all who favorited/followed/reviewed. You guys are great!**

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Even from the little bit of skin this woman's hood left uncovered, Bilbo Baggins could tell this girl wasn't ugly. Far from it, actually (she was _much_ more pleasing to look at than the other unexpected house guests!) ; but another dwarf standing on his front porch, expecting to be let in and fed an entire month's meals, was _not_ something he wanted to see when he opened his door for the third time that night!

He frowned, trying to think of an excuse to send her away, but he couldn't, so he just stood in the door the way someone does after a surprise meeting with a relative they hadn't seen in a decade, and frankly, didn't want to see them for a few more.

"Can I... help you?" Bilbo, shifting from hair-covered foot to foot, finally asked, breaking the silence but not the tension or painful awkwardness. How he wished he could just yell or slam the door in her Dwarven face! But she was a woman, and his mother had raised him as a gentlehobbit; there was no way and no how anyone treats a lady with disrespect, no matter how bizarre the circumstances. He had to admit, he was slightly afraid of her, as well; a commanding force and confidence was felt in her presence, a definite 'do _not_ mess with me, or I will mess you up'.

She said nothing, merely brushed the Hobbit aside gently and strode in uninvited. Curiously, her eyes scanned his home, taking in the neatly arranged furniture and family portraits of various curly-haired hobbits. What he didn't know was that it was nervousness, not curiosity, flashing across her features, as she saw that there was only one exit should she need to escape and the only thing that could be utilized as an effective weapon was the flame-tipped candles, which were far out of her reach. She was in a place she did not know, with only the weapons she could carry on her person. Slightly frightened, she bit her lip before chastising herself. No one was going to attack her here, she didn't need to have the place mapped out like a battleground, and she _definitely_ did not need to be afraid. What was even there to be afraid of? Nothing, that's what, her brain insisted, trying desperately to calm her concerns.

"Nice place you've got here, Master Baggins." She complimented, though her voice betrayed her real opinion of it. Sighing, she unclasped the heavy coat covering her body, peeling off the stuffy fabric with relief. Happy to have that burden off, she tossed it in a heap on the ground, laying her weapons down on top of them much more gently. Bilbo made a strangled noise, clenching his fists, reminding himself that she was a _lady_ and even ladies that completely ignore coat-hooks are to be treated with respect.

"Is there a washbasin and rags somewhere that I could use?" she asked, abruptly turning to the Hobbit, displaying her blood-covered wound. "I've got to clean it out or it might get infected."

Visibly paling at the sight of blood, Bilbo simply pointed down one of the many hallways before losing his composure completely and scurrying in the opposite direction.

"I need to be more careful." Flinn winced and chastised herself, rubbing the hot fabric over her wound more gently. Too late she'd cast aside her usual reckless manner though, and fresh blood seeped through the injured skin. Scrubbing at the puckered skin, dabbing away new scarlet drops, she sighed. Most Dwarves were distrustful at best when it came to magic, so not using it until absolutely necessary was the way she planned on gaining their trust. It was hard not to heal herself, though; especially when she was, as usual, a clumsy fool who very seldom didn't mess something up.

She concentrated on replacing her armor, ignoring the sting and the sing-song voice in her head reminding that 'magic can take care of that'. Carrying the washbasin which was now full of a pinkish mixture (the squeamish Bilbo probably did not want to take care of her disgusting blood-water, and though it would be hilarious to watch him squirm if he had to, she wasn't _that_ cruel. Most of the time) she dumped the mixture out with a _sploosh_.

"Mister Bilbo!" She shouted down the hall after depositing the empty stone washbasin where it belonged. "Mister Bilbo!" She called again, more insistently this time. Impatiently tapping her foot on the smooth wooden floor as if it would summon the Hobbit faster, she waited. And waited. "If only these Hobbit holes didn't have so many damn tunnels, it would be so much easier to find one's way." she grumbled, stomping hungrily around Bag End's winding tunnels. Bilbo had, of course, not been summoned by her annoyed foot-tapping. No matter! The larder couldn't be that hard to find, it was a Hobbit hole after all, the pantry and dining hall were probably main rooms!

The pantry was enormous; filled with fruit jam, giant wheels of cheese, bread with hard and soft crusts both, smoked and salted hams and long links of sausage, wrinkled scarlet and yellow tomatoes, bottles of oily dressings, garlic and other various herbs hanging from the rafters, juicy slices of plum, apple, and succulent peach, red-skinned potatoes, and, of course, several casks of every wine and ale under the sun. But the most notable (and Bilbo's least favorite) of this room's contents were the Dwarves.

Flinn scrunched her nose in silent thought as she examined the wine bottle in her hands. Gandalf had told her each Dwarf's name, as well as described the face that belonged to it. She'd not been exactly sober, though, and remembering was hard; like looking for something in a thick, heavy fog. With twelve out of thirteen chances to use the wrong name, it was almost a guarantee that she'd screw up. She sighed in exasperation, uncorking the bottle with a _pop_ and throwing back an enormous gulp. Might as well be pleasantly drunk while she embarrassed herself.


End file.
